Hands
by Toadflame
Summary: Your hands can do so many different things, even tell you about your personality.  Wally takes a night to reflect on why he and Dick are so different - through their hands.


**Well, I was bored. The other night when I was bored, I made a blanket fort. Speaking of which, I need to go put the furniture back…anyway, today, my boredom is being taken care of using the Hand Creative Writing prompt at http : / / fiction writing (dot) about (dot) com /od /writing exercises /ss /hands exercise .htm**

**Mahlia actually gets a little of the credit for inspiring me to do this. I hope you don't think I'm copying, mahli! It sounded like so much fun. You guys should go check out her story **_**A Handy Distraction**_** if you haven't, it's a really good read.**

**Enjoy. The song I listened to while writing this was _Till The World Ends_ by Britney Spears. Strange, I know.**

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><p>I'm not quite sure when I had started noticing my best friend's hands. More than once, I've had to jerk myself from a dazed stupor of just sitting there, leaning slightly, and just <em>looking<em> at the hands.

Long, slim fingers, strong yet delicate in their own right. They were artist's fingers, attached to a curved oval palm. The hands themselves were pale and smooth, not calloused as my own. The fingernails were neatly trimmed so they were just even with the ends of his fingertips. It was all so very smooth.

I glanced surreptitiously at my own. Long fingers, yes, but nowhere near as long or slim as my best friend's. Blocky palm, rough with calluses. Chewed off fingernails, right down to the quick. A small bruise from where I slammed my finger into Aunt Iris and Uncle Barry's door just before I ran to the mountain this morning. My own hands were not nearly as smooth.

I looked back up, watching the hands that fascinated me so much. They were white with chalk to keep moisture from letting my friend slip off the bar, even though he wasn't more than seven feet and would've only crashed into the soft mats below. The hands themselves twisted, allowing the body suspended by them to twist and turn as their owner went through his routine. They were flexible, graceful, and powerful all at once as they kept the teen from falling.

In an effort to distract myself, I pulled my mind away from the hands in front of me. Instead, I thought about places I (just now) decided I'd like to visit. London, Paris, Toledo…Gotham. Gotham? When did that pop into my head? Anxiously, I try to shake that thought away. Gotham was about as exciting as watching grass grow or paint dry. I mean, sure, there's a whole lot going _on_ in Gotham - crime and pollution out the wazoo, cutting-edge stuff from WayneTech, and extravagant parties hosted by billionaires practically every night - but there wasn't anything that would get me to go there.

Maybe a mission.

Or…my best friend.

Great, I was back to that already. I knew my eyes must look glazed over, staring at the bar, but I couldn't help it. They just fascinated me to no end. How anyone could keep them so…_good-looking_.

That got me thinking. Scary thought, I know, so don't tell Arty. But, I couldn't help but wonder: what do hands tell about your personality?

His hands, baby-smooth to show a childish side, but fingers long to show a maturity above his years. The smoothness, broken by the lines on everybody's palms, could show that he had a personality that fit with others despite the bumps along the way. Trimmed fingernails to show he cared.

My own, though…Rough palms, showing years of playing outside and being, well, a child. Calluses to show that I probably didn't care as much as I should. Long fingers to show some maturity, but not enough to balance the child me. Roughness to symbolize my abrasive personality (yeah, I knew it, but I didn't really care sometimes). Bitten-off fingernails that meant that I cared, but not a whole lot.

I swallowed, a loud sound to my ears, as I watched him let his hands leave the bar. They grabbed onto the bar above and to the left of the first one, letting a small puff of chalk off them. They left white smears on the other bar where he twisted and spun.

"You wanna go to Gotham and, uh, see the circus or something?" I blurted suddenly, drawing his attention as he twisted to face the opposite direction he had been. "I mean, I heard it was there, and, well, you're doing all sorts of acrobatics and stuff…" My voice trailed off, almost cowardly. "It kinda made me think of the circus."

"…huh?" he asked, dropping to the ground. "Go see a circus? Why?"

"I dunno."

His eyes were boring into me, I could feel it, and I'm looking anywhere but at him. I heard him walk over and grab the water bottle sitting beside me, and he flopped down to my left.

"Sure."

It's my turn to be startled. "What?"

"Let's go to the circus." He stood, and held one of those chalk-covered hands out to me. "It's Pop Haly's, anyway. I wanna see how everybody's doing."

I smirked, taking the proffered hand and standing. "Race ya."

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><p><strong>This didn't really turn out like I was expecting. I kinda wanted it to be a little more introspective, more character study than anything else, and I guess you could say that I accomplished that. This is my first what I'd call "true" character study. But it didn't turn out because I wasn't expecting what happened at the end.<strong>

**Ooh, look, first new story I've posted in a while! I hope you enjoyed! Reviews, especially ones with concrit, appreciated greatly!**


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